Touch of Eternity(12)

I wondered why my grandma would have a necklace with the Cameron coat of arms on it. And why was it so warm again? It wasn’t burning hot like last time, but it was much warmer than the necklace from the shop.

When I took a closer look, I saw that the two pieces of jewelry were remarkably similar. Each showed a bundle of arrows bound together in the middle along with some words. The writing was clear on the souvenir: Cuimhnich air na daoine o’n d’ thanig thu. I held up my pendant to compare:



The legible letters were identical. My necklace was much more delicate and expertly crafted than the one I’d snagged off the souvenir stand, but I was convinced the words were the same. Still, I had no idea what they meant.

The shop had largely emptied out, and I looked for a salesperson. A young woman with flaming-red hair was standing at the cashier’s desk, looking bored while leafing through a magazine. I assumed she was resting after the siege of tourists she had just survived. Patiently, I waited for her to look up from the magazine, but she ignored me.

“Excuse me,” I said.

She glanced at me briefly before looking back down at her magazine.

“Yeah, what?” she barely managed to utter.

“This coat of arms—”

“Twelve pounds.” She turned to the next page. The cover of the magazine read “Brangelina wedding, at last?,” and I could imagine that for the clerk, answering a thousand questions a day from annoying tourists was not nearly as intriguing as reading about the love lives of movie stars.

Still, I didn’t give up. I put my hand holding the souvenir necklace smack in the middle of her magazine, right on top of the photo of the radiant Hollywood couple.

“You don’t understand,” I said. “I don’t want to buy it. I want to know what this writing means.”

“Oh yes, I do understand,” Ms. Flamehair said snootily. She yanked the magazine away and put it under the counter. “But unfortunately, I’m not a linguist, I’m a sales assistant. If you want to translate that Gaelic writing, then I recommend you get one of those dictionaries.” She motioned toward a table behind me, where several dictionaries, tour guides, and maps were laid out. “Or have a look at the books on the history of the clans.”

With that, I was dismissed, and Cathy—her name was on the name tag pinned to her shirt—began to sort out the cash-register drawer.

“By the way, we’re closing in five minutes,” she cheerfully called out.

There was no way I’d be able to find what I was looking for in five minutes. I leafed through the Gaelic dictionaries as fast as I could, but apart from learning how to ask for a bed-and-breakfast, I didn’t find a thing.

Cathy cleared her throat behind me. I ignored her for another minute, but then I gave up. Discontentedly, I paid the twelve pounds for the souvenir Cameron necklace and stepped out into the fresh air.

The parking lot was deserted. Cathy came out a minute later and locked the door. She glared at me, opened her car door, and drove off without a second look. It was starting to sink in: I was completely alone at the ruins of Urquhart Castle. Where the hell was my tour group, I wondered. Where was Baldy the Tour Guide? And where was the damn bus? Shit! The wind got stronger and a cold blast invaded my jacket. All right then, I decided. I’d have to call Roy and Alison and ask one of them to pick me up.

I rummaged around in my backpack for my cell phone. Then I remembered that I’d mindlessly tossed my phone into my suitcase after typing in all the important numbers for Scotland. Great. No cell phone. And I didn’t see a pay phone anywhere.

I was starting to feel a little panicky. I paced back and forth and considered my options: I could stay where I was, hoping the bus would turn around when someone in my tour group realized I was missing. I could wait for Alison and Roy; surely they’d find me eventually.

There was a roll of thunder. Night was beginning to fall and a mighty black wall of clouds had pushed itself across the sky. The castle was illuminated with spooky greenish lights, which only added to the ominous atmosphere. A bright stroke of lightning flashed across the water.

I added it up. I was alone, at night, in a storm, on the shores of Loch Ness, next to a ruin and all its ghosts, waiting for help when no one knew I needed it. That was too much for me, and I wasn’t just going to stand there. I grabbed my backpack and pulled the hood of my jacket down over my face as far as it would go. I walked briskly along the street in the direction of the last town I remembered passing. I figured there was bound to be a phone booth somewhere along the way.

But soon I started to second-guess myself: How far had it been to the town? Was I going the right way? Should I—or shouldn’t I—hitchhike?